


The Ceaseless Watcher's Special Little Boys

by Immortal_Enby_Archivist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Autistic Carlos, Cecil and Jon are penpals, Khoshekh makes an appearance, Light Angst, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, The Mechanisms was Jon's uni band and I won't apologise for it, canon-typical Compelling powers, set mid season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immortal_Enby_Archivist/pseuds/Immortal_Enby_Archivist
Summary: When Cecil Palmer invites Jonathan Sims to spend a day in Night Vale and be on his radio show... How can the Archivist refuse? But most importantly: can he keep his hunger at bay long enough to avoid feeding on his friend's trauma?
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 128





	The Ceaseless Watcher's Special Little Boys

"Listeners, we have a very special guest today." Cecil leaned towards the microphone, the smile on his lips audibly altering the inflection of his voice. "As you all know, visitors are hard to come across in Night Vale, but someone managed to find our little town and is here to tell us all about his work. You all know him, I've mentioned him several times already on air. Say hello to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London!"

"Just 'Jon' is fine." Jon shifted into his seat: it had been years since he had last felt this anxious about 'performing' live. And the Knowledge that there was something nefarious and mysterious behind the door labelled 'Station Management', right across the hallway, did not help. 

"Well, Jon, I'm so glad you're here." Cecil's joy was too contagious - Jon couldn't help but raise the corners of his lips. "We asked our listeners to send us some questions for you via email, carrier pigeon, or prophetic dream. My interns picked the most interesting ones, and if that's alright with you, you could answer them."

"Sure, yeah."

The radio host picked up a sheet of paper and held it in front of his face. A purple third eye opened on his forehead, and Jon stared at it, sheer willpower the only thing preventing his mouth from hanging agape. "Here's the first one: 'What exactly is the Magnus Institute?'"

Thank God, an easy one. "It... It's, uh... It's an institute founded by Jonah Magnus, which collects statements from those who have witnessed supernatural events." He briefly considered asking Cecil about the _eye_ , but as curious as he was, he was _not_ going to Compel the radio host twenty minutes after they had met in person for the very first time. 

"We should probably get one of those in Night Vale. Next qu-" Cecil stopped, and pointed at the table. "When did you take out a tape recorder?" 

Jon stared at the damn thing, flustered. "O-oh, I... I didn't, it just... happens, sometimes."

The radio host nodded. "Alright."

"You don't sound... worried?" 

"Well, if I panicked every time an object appeared out of thin air, I would spend my life in constant anxiety." 

Fair enough. 

"Next question: 'What's your job like?'"

_Literal hell_. "As Head Archivist, I read statements and decide which ones are worthy of further investigations. I then record the ones that have the greater chance of being real."

"Both our jobs involve reporting on things by talking, and personally, I think that's amazing. Next up we have: 'How do you know Cecil?' Oh, that sure is an interesting one!" 

Jon cleared his throat, to have time to recollect his thoughts; he found it a little hard to think. "I was investigating a statement from someone who had visited Night Vale, and Cecil's name popped up a handful of times. I found his phone number, and the more we talked, the more I was..."  
Confused. Puzzled. Horrified.  
"... _interested_ in this town. We eventually kept talking and... became friends, I guess." He deemed it best not to mention that he was also harbouring suspicions that Cecil too might be an Avatar of the Beholding, and he wanted to keep an eye (no pun intended) on him. Not that his friendship (if you could call it that) with the radio host was purely for the sake of knowledge: he genuinely enjoyed talking to him, it was refreshing talking to someone whose life was weirder than his. "When I came to America for... work, he asked if I could come visit, and I agreed."

"And here we are. Isn't it neat? Alright, next question." Cecil's voice changed to a monotone, deadpan delivery. His eyes turned completely white and glowed faintly. " _Please, help me. They come when I'm asleep, crawl on my bed, scuttling down my throat and in my lungs, burrowing themselves deep in my body, until I can't recognise if the squirming in my stomach is my panic or just them. I can hear them approaching. They're coming closer. Help._ Huh." Cecil's eyes went back to normal, and he shuffled through the papers with a frown. Apart from that, he didn't seem particularly upset about what had just happened. "That's a weird question. Well, I think that's it for our Q&A session. Do you have any questions for me, Jon?" 

Several, actually, for example 'Why did people stare at me chanting 'interloper, interloper' as I walked to the radio station?'. "No, thanks, I'm good."

"Okay. We'll be back to talking with Jon soon, but first, let's take a look at the Community Calendar."

Jon took advantage of this time and began observing Cecil as he stared at papers in front of him. He began to wonder with a creeping sense of dread why it took him so long to realise that every single page Cecil had held in front of his face was completely blank. 

The radio host would often describe himself as an average human, as far as looks were concerned, but there was nothing average about his glowing third eye that seemed to appear whenever he was delivering the news, or about his tattoos (which the Archivist could have sworn were moving) snaking up his arms and peeking through the collar of his shirt. There was absolutely nothing average about his clothing style either: a striped pastel pink and neon green t shirt, a long patchwork skirt, a pair of rainbow sneakers, star shaped glasses, and earrings made from two crayons. He looked like a five-year-old's idea of a fashion statement; the absolute nonchalance with which he carried on with his daily tasks in such an absurd outfit was nothing short of charming. Perhaps Jon was kind of biased, considering his boldest fashion choices came from his university years, and his days as a trigger-happy immortal space pirate were a distant memory by then. He had ditched the waistcoats, belts, and steampunk goggles, along with the rage and undiagnosed trauma that compelled him to create that persona in the first place. He was now perfectly content with repressing his emotions and dressing in shirts and cardigans. He remembered once he overheard Tim complaining to Sasha that he dressed like a Tory. He would have given anything to hear him say that one last time.

Cecil's soothing voice narrated bizarre news, such as a school field trip in something called the Barista District, a strange discovery in an underground cave, and a ritual ("We would like to remind our listeners to not leave the house on Thursday, under any circumstance, and to make sure you and your loved ones are wearing your government-mandated quartz amulet. The remains of those who don't protect themselves will be picked up by the Sheriff's Secret Police on Friday morning").

Jon was starting to feel lightheaded, and the weakness he had been trying to fight through was beginning to take control over him. When was the last time he had _eaten_? 

"And on Sunday John Peters, you know, the farmer? is hosting a charity sale. All the proceeds will go to paying for John's tractor, which has recently broken down after the Bear Accident I'm sure you all remember well. Now, let's get back to- Jon, are you alright?"

Cecil's third eye had vanished, but his gaze was still piercing, concern pulling at his face and making him frown. 

Jon knew he must have looked extremely pale, and he felt like he was going to collapse at any moment. He had a lump in his throat, and he couldn't tell if the knot in his stomach was from hunger, or from disgust at himself for what he was going to do. "Have you ever had any encounters with the supernatural? Something bizarre even by Night Vale standards." He promptly added. 

Cecil opened his mouth, then shivered lightly. "Ooh, this is weird. Nice, but weird. It kind of tickles. Anyway, yes, something weird did happen to me recently, why?" The radio host's eyes shone. "Are you going to take my statement?" 

Jon mustered up all of his autocontrol to ask: "Do you... want to?" 

"Sure! Why not? Listeners, you are going to get a glimpse into the work of a Head Archivist. So, how does it work?" 

"Well, you just start talking about your experience." Jon's hand started moving towards the tape recorder instinctively, but then he remembered it was already turned on. "Statement of Cecil Gershwin Palmer, regarding..." 

"Oh, um, a shovel I met in a graveyard."

Definitely weird. But Jon was too famished to care. "Statement taken directly from subject. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."

Cecil's eyes turned white once more, and his purple eye opened. "I was walking home after work. It was dark, and the streets were empty. I quickened my pace, because my husband was waiting for me at our home."

Ah, yes, Carlos. Cecil was already normally an oversharer, but when it came to Carlos, he outdid himself. Once, his husband entered into the room to ask him something while he was on call with Jon, and afterwards the radio host spent 15 minutes just gushing over him. To be fair, it was really hard to _not_ like the man. He was kind and well spoken, his thick glasses and labcoat (always stained with multicoloured fluids of which the Archivist did _not_ want to know the origin) gave him the charm of a sweet nerd. Plus, admittedly, he _did_ have perfect hair.  
Jon had grown rather fond of him ever since the first science joke. Cecil had business to attend to in another room, and left Carlos alone with the Archivist still in call. They both remained quiet for a few, torturous seconds, before the scientist blurted out: "Wanna hear a scientifically accurate joke?" Jon agreed, and ever since then Carlos had come in the room at the same time whenever Cecil and Jon were videocalling, told his science joke and left. Carlos loved fixed routines. 

The Archivist was about to ask the radio host to carry on with his statement, when he continued on his own.

"I walked past a gate I did not recognise. It immediately struck me as weird, I've been living in Night Vale all of my life, I know its streets like the back of my hand. I didn't slow down, because I wanted to get home as quickly as possible. I turned around the corner and the gate was still there, in front of me. Behind the metal fence I could see marble graves in patches of dark grass. I wanted to dismiss it and keep walking, but a part of me deep within compelled me to open the gate and walk in. It swung open as soon as I pushed, with an eerie creak. I took a step inside and heard it shut behind me; I was trapped. 'No, that's absurd,' I thought, 'I could just climb over the gate.' I tried phoning Carlos to tell him I was going to be late, but there was no signal. Everything was a red flag telling me to run away.  
Yet, there was something compelling me to walk through the white marble path glowing in the moonlight. So I did. I followed the path, stretching endlessly in front of me; I occasionally checked the tombstones, but none of the names I read were familiar. I don't remember getting to a turn, but I must have, because suddenly I was around a corner, and I was greeted with the sight of the exact same path, with the exact same graves. I turned around and tried to go back, but the path behind me was straight. I kept walking for a while, but every time I'd find myself turning a corner to the same view. That's when I met the shovel."

Jon probably would have laughed if he hadn't been so damn hungry.

"It was buried in the ground, handle sticking up. I heard its voice, clear as day, echoing in my mind. ' _Dig._ '" Cecil's voice turned eerily raspy, and its pitch was raised slightly, to the point where it hardly seemed like the sharp words came from his mouth. "' _I know you want to. Hold me and dig, dig, dig deep into the ground. Do it_.' I managed to ignore it and walked past it, but right as I turned the corner, there it was again. ' _Don't you dare ignore me anymore. Pick me up and start digging until your hands bleed, until your flesh is pierced by splinters and blisters, until you forget anything that isn't the ground piling up next to you._ ' It was too strong. I yielded. I picked up the shovel and started digging in the soft soil. I don't know how much time passed. My entire world shrunk to the hard wooden handle in my hands, the dirt settling on my fingers and my clothes, the pain in my arms, and the pit growing ever deeper. By the time I got a real chance to think through what I was doing, the hole I had dug was about four feet deep. ' _More._ ' The voice demanded. ' _Dig more, don't stop_.' It dawned on me that once I had been satisfied with the pit, I would have lied in it, and somehow I knew that the dirt would just bury me on its own, trapping me inside the unforgiving earth. The prospect was almost enticing. The shovel hit the ground once more, when the thought of my husband crossed my mind. Waiting for me in our house, probably wondering where I was. No matter how inviting the idea of being crushed by six feet of dirt felt at the time, my home was elsewhere. I was sure about one thing: if I kept digging, I would have never seen Carlos again. I would have died there."

Cecil drew in a shaky breath, and his eyes went back to normal. Even the eye on his forehead disappeared. "We- we'll be continuing this statement, but first: the weather."

Music started playing without anyone touching any button. Likewise, the red light signalling that they were on air turned off on its own. Jon suddenly felt very foolish about worrying that Cecil would have freaked out at the sight of a semi-sentient tape recorder.  
The radio host immediately sighed with relief.

Jon didn't know how Cecil had managed to stop during a statement, but he suspected the Eye was responsible for it somehow. His visceral reaction was to be annoyed at this interruption, but then guilt crept up on him. He wasn't quite... _full_ yet, but at least he didn't feel like he was going to pass out at any second. "I'm sorry." He finally said, quietly.

The radio host smiled hesitantly. "It's not your fault."

_Yes, it is. I was hungry and couldn't think straight, and now I'm feeding on your trauma like a..._  
 _Monster._  
How was he any better than the other Avatars?

"Besides, I believe that talking about this experience will do me nothing but good."

"If you say so... Where's the toilet?"

"Down the corridor, third door to the left."

Jon was simply looking for an excuse to get as far away from the radio host's pale, shaken face as possible. Once he reached the men's bathroom, he locked the door and sighed.  
That's when he noticed several _things_ in the shape of cats hovering next to the sink. They were black with white paws, several tails, multiple eyes, too many tentacles for the Archivist's taste, and way too many teeth. He yelped and jumped away from them, slamming his back against the door. Eventually, he recognised the hellspawns as Khoshekh - Cecil's cat - and his kittens, and he allowed himself to breathe. He cautiously approached the sink; Khoshekh rubbed against his shoulder.

"Oh, um, hello." He scratched the cat behind his ear, and he got rewarded by loud purrs. "Good boy."  
He turned towards the sink and splashed water on his face. The reflection in front of him showed a tired man, with prominent eyebags, grey hair and unbearable pain in his eyes. He redid his messy bun and pensively thumbed at one of the circular scars peppered across his skin. "Almost there." He muttered to himself. He left the bathroom a couple of minutes later, hesitating a few seconds before opening the door to the studio.

The song ended shortly after Jon had sat back down. Cecil went back to his eye trance, and carried on with his statement. "I don't know what came over me, but I started running away from the shovel, away from the pit. I heard my feet thumping rhythmically on the ground as I followed the path. ' _Come back here,_ ' the voice hissed through my mind, ' _finish what you' ve begun, you coward_.' I have no idea how I managed to ignore its demands. I ran until I was out of breath, but the path kept stretching in front of me, unchanged. I stopped to recollect my thoughts, and suddenly I Knew. I Knew what I had to do. I turned to face the wall encircling the graveyard and ran straight towards it. ' _No!_ ' The voice shrieked, a confirmation that I was doing the right thing. I emerged in the same street I had disappeared from, and when I turned around the graveyard had vanished, a regular building in its place. The only tangible proof that I hadn't dreamed came through the earth on my hands and the soreness in my arms. I walked home in a daze; even the cold metal of the keys in my hand felt distant, like I was experiencing it in a dream. I closed the door and immediately apologised to Carlos for being late. 'What are you talking about?' He said." Here Cecil did a spot-on impression of his husband. "'If anything you're early. Is everything alright?' I couldn't bring myself to explain what happened. I don't know why, I just couldn't. So I didn't. I sat down, had dinner with him, and that was it. I never mentioned this to anyone, this is the first time I've ever talked about it. I haven't seen the graveyard again, but something deep inside of me _knows_ that it's still out there, hunting for new victims to add to its collection of graves."

The radio host exhaled and his eyes went back to normal. "Well, that was... weird. Like something was pulling those words out of me."

Jon didn't even enjoy the relief he was feeling: the energy he had gained after the statement was overshadowed by the insurmountable guilt at the sight of Cecil's pale face.

"Thank you." The Archivist mumbled, staring at the floor.

"Thank you for being here. Listeners, there is a lot in our world we don't understand, and while that may seem scary, I think it has a silver lining. Mysteries can make us feel uneasy, but they also remind us that there's so much we don't know, and being alive to search for answers... Well , that's about the greatest gift anyone could ask for. As always, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight."

The red light went off, and Cecil closed his eyes for a few seconds. "That was... Surely something."

Jon scoffed. "You can say that."

"Carlos is making tamales for dinner."

The Archivist wondered what that had to do with the conversation, when he realised. "Oh. I... I really don't want to be a burden."

Cecil waved his hand to swat away his concern. "Nonsense, I had already planned for you to stay here for the night."

It was weird, but despite the crushing guilt, Jon felt... at home. Loved. "Alright, then."

When they left the station, they were greeted by Carlos leaning against a lamppost, and by the starry desert night.  
Cecil went to hug his husband, and judging by the look on their faces, they were going to have a long conversation in private.

"Is he coming with us?"

"Yes, I managed to convince him."

Carlos flapped his hands in happiness.

Jon looked up at the sky and a faint smile raised the corners of his lips. The moon really was beautiful there. "Carlos, got any science jokes for me?"


End file.
